Countess Nicolette de Gobignon pressed a wet cloth tothe King's brow. Though he lay there helpless, still she found him an awesome figure, like a fallen cathedral tower. Only two other men are as tall, she thought. Amalric and Orlando. She felt a pang of guilt. How could she be thinking about the troubadour here where her royal master lay slowly dying? She fixed her eyes on Louis, and on the ivory and wood crucifix that rose and fell on his chest with his labored breathing. Nicolette felt as if she, too, could hardly breathe. Across the crowded room a fire roared in a huge stone-lined fireplace. The air was stifling. She resented all that made it so, down to the woolen draperies and wall hangings and the thick carpets that sealed in the heat. But she knew that this northern chateau, Pontoise-les-Noyons, a day's ride from Paris, had had to be built to withstand cold, its walls thick and its windows tiny ? so totally unlike the bright, airy Languedoc manor she had grown up in. Sweat trickled down her brow and stung her eyes. Her breath was coming in little gasps. She felt as if she would faint if she couldn't go outside soon. Dozens of people, the King's family and courtiers, had packed themselves uselessly into the room, making it even more suffocating. Their whispers, like the buzzing of mosquitoes, irritated Nicolette. Almost all of them, she was sure, worried more about their own welfare than about the King's. And even Louis's wife and mother, though they grieved for him, were too distracted to do much to alleviate his suffering. She saw the King's lips quiver, and quickly she bent close to him. Any last words could be terribly important. "Jerusalem," he mumbled. "Towers - golden. Gates of pearl. Crystal waters." Then he panted heavily. "Hush, sire," she whispered. "Rest easy." Nicolette told the King to "rest easy" - not enough information - When she decided to leave - After the king mumbled something to her - When his wife and mother came to the room
After the king mumbled something to her

He had apparently spaced out for a second or two. When he came to, a large, annoyed woman was leaning in toward him. "Mister? Mister, are you even listening to me?" He looked at the receding rows of fluorescent lights on the struts of the cavernous ceiling, the gleaming linoleum floors, the pallets of sale-priced plastic coolers and Special K and motor oil, and then he looked at the rack of merchandise at his back and understood that he was in a Wal-Mart, behind the returns counter. He heard his own voice saying, as if by reflex, "Do you have your receipt?" * At the first opportunity, he locked himself in a bathroom stall and dug out his wallet. His driver's license showed the right name, birthdate, and photo, but it had been issued by the State of North Carolina, and it listed an address he'd never heard of. He scrubbed his face at the sink. It was him in the mirror, a tanned and healthy 56, hair mostly gray but still all there. He felt groggy, as if he'd woken prematurely. It was only the numbness, he thought, that kept the panic at bay. If he didn't push, he found he knew the answers to some questions. He was due to clock out in an hour. When he left the parking lot he would go under the highway, turn left, and merge. * He found his way to a battered white Toyota pickup in the employee section. The key in his pocket started the engine. He forced himself not to think too hard as he drove, taking the turns that seemed to have a certain inevitability. He wound up on a dirt road near someplace called Pittsboro, in front of a small brick house surrounded by high yellow grass, pines, and live oaks. How does he feel about his appearance? - not enough information - He looks good for his age: not bald, not sick - He has black eyes and no idea how he got them. - He avoids looking in the mirror and he isn't sure why.
He looks good for his age: not bald, not sick

“Please remember me to myself!” When sliding toward mania in 2016, I begged this of my therapist. He cocked his head. “What do you mean?” I had no idea—on a conscious level—what I was asking for, just that I felt in a desperate sense that the self I knew was slipping away. An inability to recognize myself either in my writing or in reflecting upon my own actions was taking over. And then…? I didn't care. I wanted to kiss girls. Which is fine—just not something I ordinarily do. I wanted to drink, smoke. Again, fine—but not something I ordinarily do. “Do I seem…okay?” I asked a colleague at work. A woman I barely knew. Insanely, I thought that since she worked with disabled students, many of whom struggled with mental illness, she would know mania when she saw it. This was a rather foolish assumption—especially since she's an educator, not a psychiatrist, especially with how skilled I am at wearing the mask of calm, the face of sanity. “You seem great, Julie. Cheery. Professional as always.” I let her reassurance placate me. Wanted to be placated. Yet, within months I lost my job. And not only that, but a chance at a scholarship, two really important long term friendships—relationships I'd enjoyed since high school. I was hospitalized three times between September and February. I lost my ability to trust myself, lost my mind. It is now a little over two years since I first felt that sliding. Twenty-six months since I knew that somewhere in the deepest parts of who I am, I was slipping. Nine seasons since I begged Dr. Poe, “Remember me to myself!” I'm still recuperating. Yes. I have felt like I wasn't me. When did Julie lose her job? - Julie lost her job about twenty-six months ago. - Julie lost her job in 2016. - Julie lost her job two years ago. - not enough information

Julie lost her job in 2016.